He took a pull off the bottle of water left over from lunch, but it didn’t help dissolve the sourness at the back of his throat. It remained, firm-rooted and dry-most likely the aftertaste of death and murder, both of which he’d been steeped in for the past month. Maybe he needed something stronger to wash it away.
A neon martini glass beckoned from a dark-tinted window, and he jerked the Beemer left into a parking lot and coasted up to the white valet stand.
The thrumming bass from the car pulling out and the all-black attire of the couple whisking in indicated that Tim had accidentally arrived at a club rather than a bar. He disliked hip in most of its variations, but it was too late now, and besides, a drink was a drink.
As he got out of his car, a kid with slicked-back hair presented a ripped stub from an effluvium of bad cologne, then slid behind the wheel and screeched around the corner. Tim looked at the five blank spaces in front of the club and turned a befuddled glance at the remaining valet. “Is there some reason you can’t leave the car right here?”
The valet coughed out a snicker. “Uh, yeah. It’s a ’97.”
A bouncer manned a maroon rope in front of the door. He was fit, half white, half Asian, and handsome as fuck. Tim disliked him instantly, blindly.
Tim approached and flicked his hand at the dark door, from which issued cigarette smoke and a tune heavy on beat and metallics. The bouncer kept his head tilted back as if in a constant state of boredom or appraisal. “Get in line please, pal.”
Tim looked around at the empty entrance. “What line?”
“Over there.” The bouncer pointed to a red roll-up carpet-some night promoter’s brainchild-that stretched to the right of the rope. Tim exhaled hard and stepped over onto the carpet. He made for the rope, but the bouncer didn’t move.
“You want me to wait here?”
“Yes.”
“Even though there’s no one in line?”
“Yes.”
“Is this Candid Camera or something?”
“Man, you are clueless.” Something vibrated on the bouncer’s waist, and he took a long look at a row of colorful, belt-adhered pagers. He squeezed the banana yellow one and glanced at the backlit screen. “How’d you get your black eye?”
“Freak badminton accident.”
The guy’s head rolled to its usual back-tilted perch on his wide neck. “You gonna start trouble at my club?”
“If you keep me out here, I might.”
The guy’s laugh smelled like gum. “I like your style, pal.” He unclipped the rope and stepped aside, but not far enough that Tim didn’t have to lean to get past him.
Tim entered and spotted a stool at the bar. As he headed over, a guy in clay-colored jeans with endless pockets eyed him derisively. “Nice shirt, pops.”
Behind the bar a translucent rise of shelves glowed phosphorescent blue. Tim ordered a twelve-dollar vodka on the rocks from an attractive redheaded bartender wearing a rubber vest with a zipper teased down to reveal cleavage.
A couple of girls were grooving up on a light box out on the dance floor. The crowd swelled and ebbed around them, wafting Tim’s way the smell of designer cologne and clean sweat. A couple lay sideways in a booth, licking each other’s faces, e-ravenous for sensation. The surge of sex and exuberance charged the air, approaching-storm strong, and in the middle sat Tim, immobile and square, watching the proceedings like a chaperon at a mixer. He found his glass empty and gestured to the bartender for a fresh one.
A girl beside him leaned curve-backed, elbows propped on the bar, facing the noise. He accidentally caught her eye and nodded. She smiled and walked off. Two guys in rumpled shirts sidled up in her place, their faces ruddy and moist from the dance floor, and ordered shots of tequila.
“…my old boss Harry, you could smell the burnout on him. He was your classic dump truck, barely followed up any leads for his clients. When I started in the public defender’s office, he had a guy in custody for a murder two, said his alibi was this bartender he was hitting on all night, a hot girl with red hair somewhere off Traction. Didn’t know where. Harry stopped by a few places, found shit, they convicted his client the next week. Fifteen to life. A few months later we come in here-God knows why, Harry’s brother-in-law invested in the joint or something-and guess what?”
The guy pointed behind the bar at the redhead in the zippered vest. “There she is. And she remembers the client. Only problem is, our boy got shanked in the yard at Corcoran two days before.” He exhaled hard. “There’s only justice for the rich. If you have a house to put up for ten percent of bail, can get your ass out of custody and working on your own case, your alibi, you’re all set. If you’re broke and you can’t remember, if your PD can’t find the hot redhead bartender somewhere off Traction…well, then.” He threw back another shot. “I come in here now, when I’m close to burnout. It reinvigorates me, inspires me to cover every damn angle.” The bartender served another round of shots, and he slid a once-folded twenty toward her. “She’s my muse.”
His friend said, “It’s a stupid fucking job we do.”
This declaration was followed by a clink of glasses, thrown-back shots, sour-faced head shakes. The talker caught Tim watching and leaned over to offer a sweaty hand.
“Name’s Richard. Why don’t you join us for a shot?” His slur was just noticeable above the pumping music.
“No thanks.”
“No offense, but I don’t see any better options around for you.” Richard turned to his friend. “Oh, well, Nick, guess our friend here doesn’t want to join us. Guess he’s busy being his own man.”
“I’m not big on public defenders.” Alcohol had loosened Tim’s tongue-he remembered anew why he rarely drank.
“Don’t see why not. We get paid shit, we burn out young, and we represent mostly reprehensible pricks. That’s a pretty appealing package, no?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been on the other end of the equation you’re bitching about. Seen people walk free who shouldn’t have.”
“Lemme guess. You’re a cop. Shoot first and ask questions later.” Richard snapped off a drunken salute. “Well, Officer, I’ll tell you, for however many cases you’ve seen go down wrong, Nick and I here have got you beat. I got a kid today-”
“I’m not interested.”
“I got a kid today-”
“Take your hand off me, please.”
Richard stepped back while Nick got busy securing their next round. “When this kid was sixteen, he broke into his cousin’s house to steal a VCR.” He held up a finger. “One strike. Goes to a high school football game, talks some shit after, tells a teacher’s kid he’s gonna beat the crap out of him if he catches him talking to his girlfriend again. Strike two. Threat of immediate assault with intent to commit GBI. That’s grievous bodily injury-”
“I know what GBI is.”
“Now, the third strike, the third strike, my friend, can be any felony. This kid goes into Longs Drugs and steals a toilet-paper holder-a goddamn toilet-paper holder. That’s 666, petty theft with a prior. It’s a wobbler, but they file it as a felony. Guess what? Strike three. Twenty-five to life. No negotiation, no judicial discretion, nothing. It’s fascism.”